


Do It, Hard

by KendylGirl



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff and Humor, Innuendo Overload, M/M, Motivational speaking, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22878844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Armie is a disenchanted business man who decides to go to yet another motivational speaker, but this arousing encounter will bring him more than he could’ve imagined.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 26
Kudos: 172





	Do It, Hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShesGoneRogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShesGoneRogue/gifts).



> I am dedicating this to wonderful ShesGoneRogue, who has been up to her eyeballs in real life; the best solution I have is to offer some fiction that will hopefully make her smile and laugh enough to make the rest easier to take!

Armie runs his thumb over the slick cover of the pamphlet and sighs.The door to the conference center swishes open and closed in front of him as a stream of suits flows in.He’s been to a dozen of these sessions before—the canned and polished advice doled out to the aimless, the slick condescension of the speaker, who is probably paid more for one hour than Armie makes in a week to smile boorishly and tell him how to live his life better, how to come out “a winner.”

All it usually gives him motivation to do is order two beers with lunch to try to drown out the buzzing in his ears, the aimlessness of chattering voices which have harped on his lost potential since he was fourteen years old.

As if they had any clue what it was like to be him.

Are they alone every night?Have they fallen into depressing jobs with no advancement, let their dreams disintegrate one by one?Did they pass on acting classes because a business degree would “pay the bills,” then drop into a senseless oblivion of routine, become functioning robots without a whisper of joy?

No?

Then fuck off.

He turns away, pulls a couple of dollars out of his pocket and buys a coffee from the vendor on the corner.He blows across the open hole of the lid, takes a sip.It burns his lip.

He holds the back of his hand against his mouth to soothe the spot and manages to dribble a hot brown trail of it down his powder blue shirt front.“Shit!” he hisses, tries to juggle the pamphlet and the cup in one hand while punching at himself with the wad of napkins in the other. 

That’s just great.

He tosses the napkins in a trash bin.Follows them with the coffee.

He should just go home.I mean, why bother?It’s a sign, right? _Cut your losses_.

Armie stares at the pamphlet, which for some reason, he still finds gripped in his hand.

It’s stupid.And pointless.

But, hell, he’s already paid for it.He might as well go in.

The conference is in a small auditorium that seats maybe a hundred fifty people, complete with a small stage and red curtain.It looks like it belongs in an elementary school, a stilted miniature version of Broadway grandeur.It’s fitting, though, since the audience is similarly populated by tired has-been’s and sad never-will-be’s who choose to continue to live vicariously through the words of someone else. _Nice_ , Armie thinks, _I’ll fit right in_.

The seats are packed, and with two minutes left until the curtain lifts, it forces him to sit in the front row.He never does that.Not only would his height invite the asinine _Down in Front!_ bullshit that he cannot believe people still find funny, but he never wants to be that accessible, that vulnerable, to the lecture that unfolds.He’s cultivated a peace for himself over the years by being a shadow on the wall, by seeming more substantive than he really is, disappearing in the instant that light shines on him directly.It’s allowed him to coast serenely for nearly a decade.To tread water.To lose the wind.

To rot.

He clomps down the short incline to the front of the stage, plops into the end seat, and hunkers down, crossing his arms in front of his chest, smirking at the folds of the curtain, which seem to billow in a breeze that Armie cannot feel on his face.Maybe he’ll have time for a drink afterwards, make the trip downtown worth it.

Who’s he kidding?All he has is time.

The house lights dim, and the curtain swishes back.There’s nothing but darkness at the back of the stage.Seconds pass.

Armie squints down at the program.Is this the wrong day or something?Who’s running this shit?

There is a swoosh on the scuffed wood of the stage.“Heyyy, everyone!Welcome, welcome!Thank you for being here today!”

Armie’s still dissecting the program, but the voice sounds off, too breathy and eager—maybe it’s someone’s staff flunky coming to tell us that the speaker canceled and we should all just leave the same way we came in. _As in ‘humiliated and dissatisfied’?_ Armie snorts to himself.

“My apologies that Todd Caston couldn’t be here this afternoon.I’m Tim Chalamet, and I’ll be…well, I’ll be filling in…for him…so…same initials, different guy…heh heh…”The nervous chuckle trails off into a gulp.

_Are you shitting me?No refunds, too.Figures_.And Armie is right in the front.It’s not like he can just get up and walk out, not without feeling like a first-class jackass.Armie crumples the program in his hand and lets it drop it to the floor.Can this day get any better?He massages the bridge of his nose, and in resignation, finally raises his gaze to the stage.

He blinks.

Blinks some more.

_I must be dreaming_.

The kid on stage can’t be more than twenty-four.He’s wearing an awkward black suit with a white shirt and charcoal tie that makes him look like an undertaker, sober clothes for a somber occasion, one it seems he’d rather endure from the wall in the back of the room until the wailing stops, not jazzing up the jaded to take on their desperate lives.The jacket looks too big for his slender frame, as if he’s borrowed it from his dad because the last time he wore a suit was to his bar mitzvah before he grew six inches without gaining a pound.It’s made all the more noticeable because of his twitchy arm movements and fidgety pacing in the small space of the stage, a caged animal, testing the limits of his zoo.

But his _face_.

The etched chin, the sculpted cheekbones.A smooth plane of forehead underscored by a thick line of eyebrows that fluctuate like ocean waves, a shorthand betraying the direction of his every thought.Every part of him screams to be touched, explored and discovered, and Armie knows that could occupy him endlessly, learning the softness and the smells with every available sense.

And that’s before he’d reach the pink taffy lips.

The man licks them, and they glisten in the spotlights.Armie’s gut twists. _Please, God, do that again_. 

And he does, flickers an uncertain smile, swipes his thick dark curl away from his face, as his gaze arcs over the room and his eyebrows pull together in a straight line.

Suddenly, the air around him electrifies, and he’s different.

Gone is the shy, awkward boy.That veil dissipates to reveal an intense and imposing figure.His shoulders seem to have broadened, arms flexing as he clenches his hands into fists, then points his long fingers at the crowd.“I doubt there is anyone here who is a stranger to want.You want to succeed, you want to climb the ladder.You want to write your story and have a climax that you’ll never forget.Am I right?”

Armie freezes. _Wait, what’d he say?_ He glances around, sits up a little higher in his seat. 

The man’s eyes glow like green embers.His lithe limbs stalk forward until he is at the front of the stage, mere feet from where Armie sits stroking his chin, realizing how warm it is in the auditorium with his suit coat on.“Well, you’re not going to get to that climax if you’re afraid to get hard.”He stalks to one corner.“Life doesn’t care how much you can take, does it?It’s going to squeeze you and squeeze you right where it hurts, guaranteed, until you swear you can’t catch your next breath.”

And he raises a hand to his throat and tips his chin back, tightens his grip just enough to emphasize his point, and Armie can feel his blood surge, has to shift in his seat to adjust himself, exhales hotly into his shoulder.

Tim throws his arms out, jaw clenching defiantly.“There’s only one thing to do.”He strides to the other side of the stage and throws his fists forward like a prize fighter.“ _Come hard_ , that’s what I say!”Two punches to the air.“Life is always going to push you into some super hard places, so what does that mean?It means _you’ve_ got to get hard!It means you’ve got to get _harder!”_

Armie whimpers—fucking _whimpers_ —silently obeying every word and willing himself not to, praying for deliverance, for distraction.For release.

_Damn it, now I’m doing it, too!_

Hold up—‘doing it’? 

_Stop it!_

Tim leaps back to the center of the stage, driving his arms forward to grab at the air, then thrusts his hips up to meet them.“Just push back in there!Push it, push it all the way in!”He shimmies to one side in a fluid dance move.“Front door locked?”And he spins to the other.“Then go in the back door!And do it _again_ and _again_ , until it feels right, until you get what you want, until you get it _all_!"

Armie is dry-mouthed and transfixed.He hears vague murmurs behind him, other guys in the room responding to the vigor of Tim’s message, the sheer presence he has on the stage, commanding all of them, compelling them to take note and hear his message.

But his words have Armie boiling, sweat around his collar, face most certainly a beet red. _Is he trying to kill me?_ Armie’s on his way to being, as ordered, so hard it’s painful, so crossing his legs right now is not an option.He shifts away in his seat, trying to at least hide what he cannot seem to control, every part of him responding instinctively to Tim’s every word. 

Oh, who’s he kidding?It’s not just his diction that has Armie by the ba—no, no—by the _nose_.(Much better.)It’s the way Tim’s silken hair swishes with his movements, and Armie’s fingers twitch with the need to grab it, tug it, smell it, wrap it around his fingers, relish it.It’s the way the red tongue hangs high in Tim’s mouth when he grins with palpable enthusiasm, sweeping around the circle of his lips and leaving them wet and quivering, that leaves Armie in the same state.It’s the way the emerald gaze, a laser that could cut glass, carves up Armie’s body into a pile of donated parts.

“Look, there’s no denying it:tough times will find you, guys.They’ll find all of us.They’ll jump on your back and ride you like a mule, keep you pumping so much you’ll think you’re going to lose it and just give into them.”A rueful shake of the head.“It can make you want to fall to your knees…fall right to your knees…”He presses the edge of his hand to his forehead and grips his temples, mouth cinched to the side.“It makes you unsettled, doesn’t it, the thought of it?Enough to make you just bury your face in the carpet and hope for all you’re worth that it still matches the drapes.”

_Is it shag carpet?_ Armie wonders, writhing quietly. _God, I hope so_.

Tim drops his hands to his hips, pushing back his dark suit coat, feet planted solidly apart.“Don’t let that happen.Don’t lose yourself to the battle.”He whips up imploring hands.“Refuse to hate your problems because that makes you submissive to them.You should love them. _Stroke_ them.”And the gorgeous palms drift up to the level of his chest and cup, hanging in the air, waiting to be filled.“Hold them in your hands…feel the weight of them…that heft…oh, _god_ , that feels good, doesn’t it?”

Armie’s breath shallows.He licks his lips, digs his fingernails into the wooden arms of the chair row and winces. _That really would feel good…so, so good…_

Tim’s eyes raise to stare steadily at the audience, a raw hunger resting in the curves of his face.Then, to Armie’s horror, they snag his own and bore directly into his soul.“That’s power, gentlemen.That is hot, silky power just quivering there all for you, leaking into your hand…”By now, Armie’s lightheaded, even before Tim raises up his hands, seems to brandish them in the overhead lights, then drags them slowly down the sensual geography of his neck.“Don’t you just want to finish them off?To stick them in your mouth and taste every last drop of them as they slide down your throat?Well, do it!Suck them down, suck them all the way down…and let them fill you up!” 

Tim’s whole body ripples, and he stalks to the other side of the stage, waving a finger at all of them, voice strong and clear.“See, problems are not the enemy; they’re your _teachers._ I mean, they are going to slam you—don’t get me wrong—but they’re just waiting for you to turn the tables and take charge.”The resonant voice makes anguished turns as he fades in and out of the new character.“’Dominate me’—that’s what your problems are saying to you.‘Whip me, make me beg for mercy!’ They _want_ you to take over…to bend them over…to bend them in _half_ …so you can really show them what you’ve got inside you!”The eyes drift closed and eager fists clutch at the curls hovering over either of his ears.“Can’t you hear them whimper, guys?Can’t you hear them _scream_?”

Tim clutches his hands into fists and pumps them overhead, infectious grin beaming hotter than the spotlights, and Armie presses the heel of his palm into his crotch and groans softly. 

Tim’s hands grip together like he’s praying.“I can’t even tell you the freedom then…the _triumph_ that you’ll feel.Devouring all of that angst is so great, so… _delicious_.The taste on your tongue?”He closes his eyes for a moment, lost in the bliss of it.“I could eat it every day and not get sick of it,” he says around a simple smile, utterly guileless.“And I know I can take it…I know I can take more and more of it every time.I just _know_ it.Because I am strong and I am determined, I am always _wide open_ for more!”

There are murmurs of assent, of approval, from pockets of people. Armie bites his bottom lip and squeezes his legs together, tries to recite in his head all of the companies on the NASDAQ, frantic to talk himself down from the ledge.

“If you think it can’t happen for you, if you think that your plans aren’t good enough, or if you fear the outcome if you try to realize them…” And Tim’s voice changes again, becomes gruff and low, a veritable purr“…don’t.Don’t worry about it—it will come for you.If you stroke the idea you’ve coveted, if you really work it and treat it right, it will _explode_ for you and coat your whole life in its magic.Man, you will fucking _marinate_ in it, and it will be glorious!”

There are a couple of whoops, a short smattering of applause.Armie gasps, holding his breath until it hurts. _No, please God, don’t explode…don’t coat your life…or your pants_ …especially _your pants_ … _no no no_ …

And Timmy grins (because, yes, now he’s Timmy, Armie’s sure of it) and slips his hands into his pockets, and it’s not until then that Armie sees the surprise peak of the suit coat’s blue satin lining.Timmy meanders forward with the folksy air of the Stage Manager in _Our Town_.“It’s all you’ve got to do, guys:go hard.Whatever it is.Do it, and do it _hard.”_

Timmy looks solidly at each side of the room.And as Armie stares back helplessly, he lowers his head and their eyes lock once again.

And Timmy winks.

Then, he turns on his heel and disappears through the curtain.

* * *

Armie stumbles out onto the sidewalk.He really needs to pee, but there’s no way that’s going to happen for a while.He adjusts his pants viciously and sighs. _Fucking hell, I need a drink_.He walks gingerly down the sidewalk in a direction he’s never gone, waits for his vision to return, for the sweat to cool and dry.He’s never been a smoker, but after that session, a cigarette seems a requirement.

He makes some blind turns, guided by he knows not what, appearing to all the world like a man on a mission, blinking at buildings and intersections like he’s known them since childhood when that cannot possibly be true.

Finally he stops in front of the glass window of a bar and restaurant, a small Mediterranean place called Crème de la Crema, its quaint wooden sign boasting “One Sea and a World of Cuisine” in gold script.

He glances at his watch.5:16. _Perfect_.

He pushes inside grabs a stool at the end of the bar, thinks about just getting a soda, but orders whisky instead.

“Tough day?” the bartender asks, plunking the glass down on a small napkin.

Armie chuckles wryly.“It’s been a hard one, that’s for sure… _rock_ _hard,_ in fact.”

The bartender just nods, wipes down the bar with a white towel.He reaches the other end where a man is slumped, head resting in one arm, nursing a beer with the other.“You good over here?”

The man sits up straight, like his dejection has been bad manners, and mumbles, “Yeah’m fine.”

Armie squints, but after only one hour in their presence, he knows he’d recognize those curls, that statuesque profile, from miles away.“Timmy.”

He looks over, faced flushed, mouth in a pout.

Armie grabs his drink and slides off his stool, rounds down to the neighboring seat.He extends his hand.“Armie.”

The pink lips part in a small smile, the same one he’d worn on stage.“Armie?Timmy.”

Armie can’t help but smile, too.“Yeah, I…I know.”

Timmy burns beet red.“Oh.Right.”Then, his forehead crinkles.“Wait, how do you…?”

Armie grips his glass tighter to keep from pressing his hands to that soft cheek to feel the flare of heat.He is astounded to realize that Timmy’s features are only accentuated by proximity.His smooth skin is splattered by copper freckles that pick up the hazel thread outlining his keen eyes.That dark hair could legitimately be spun angora that won’t be tamed, and it may be because Timmy just had his hand thrust into it to hold up his head, but somehow Armie knows that no amount of product could keep those curls in line.

Timmy is looking at him searchingly, eyes raking his face.“It’s you,” he whispers.

Armie gulps.“No, I…We’ve never met.I was…I was just in your session.”He points vaguely behind him like an idiot.

“I remember you.Front row, blue eyes… _so_ blue….really long legs…”He trails off but his eyes still dissect him, absorb him.“Like your eyelashes,” he adds dreamily.The clatter of plates nearby seems to rouse him, and he averts his eyes to a spot on the bar in between them, bites his lip.

The silence hangs for a few minutes, and both men hunch over the bar, slurp at their glasses.

Armie scratches at the scruff already emerging on his cheeks.“So how long does it take you to write all that material?”

Timmy coughs.“What do you mean?”Then his shoulders stiffen into arrows.“Oh, man, it was really bad, wasn’t it?I…I’m sorry.I tried, really.I _tried_ to do it right, but…”

Armie chuckles.“No, it was…clever, really clever, I thought.”

The thick brows fold in.“Clever?”

“Yeah, you know, ‘ _stroke_ your problems’…’ _dominate_ them’….”He wiggles his fingers.“’Do it hard.’” 

Timmy’s face is blank.“Is that…not very motivating?”He frowns.“I really just tried to get people to realize that they have the power to change their lives.That’s all I could think of.I figured that’s what people forget when they feel like they’ve been pushed around by their insecurities.”

Armie watches him, watches his shoulders slump and his mind reel over the last couple of hours.There’s no deadpan there, no irony whatsoever. _He’s for real, isn’t he?_

Armie reaches out a hand and lays it on Timmy’s forearm.“It was good advice, believe me.I’m living proof of what you end up with when your fears run your life.”He winces once he registers what he’s just said, and more for the distraction that anything else, signals the bartender for another round.

Timmy is watching him quietly.“What makes you say that?”

_Whisky_ is the answer he wants to give, along with a wink and a knowing smile.Instead, he sighs.“Whatever I thought I would be, or _could_ be, in college is gone because…well because I _let_ it leave.And now, I work in a pointless job I hate, and I’m so afraid to rock the boat that I…”He makes the mistake of glancing over at Timmy’s face, and the openness there kills him, an undefined softness in the downturn of his eyes that he wants to taste to remember.“…I spend afternoons going to seminars to try to motivate myself to keep going back.”

“I’m sorry,” Timmy tells him quietly, brushing his fingertips against Armie’s thigh.“And I know this is going to sound cheesy, but I mean it in the least clichéd way possible:it’s never too late.You can still get what you want.I _know_ you can.”And from Timmy, it doesn’t sound clichéd at all.

It sounds more like a plan.

_How does he do that?_

Armie feels himself scoot closer to him.“How long have you been a motivational speaker?”

Timmy’s face falls.“Fuck…”He drops his forehead into his hand, a distressed gurgle disappearing into his shirt sleeve.“See, the thing is…I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

“No.I’ve never done that before in my life.”

Armie blinks.“Oh.”

Timmy folds in on himself again.“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I must’ve sounded like a jackass, but I…and I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was _lying_ to you or anything, but…I just…”He glances at Armie out of the corner of his eye.“Are you mad?”

“Mad at what?”

Timmy’s arms flop.“At paying for that seminar so some joker with no experience can spew nonsense at you for an hour.At me being a fucking fraud.”

Armie laughs and gives Tim’s shoulder a squeeze.“Timmy, do you realize you’ve just perfectly described every other guy on that circuit?Trust me, they’re all frauds.”His hand decides on its own to rub soothingly up and down Timmy’s back.“But I would never use that word to describe you.”He can feel the muscles along Timmy’s spine relax and warm beneath his palm.“You are real even when you want to be false.”

Timmy smiles shyly, hides it by head-butting Armie’s shoulder. 

“So what _do_ you do in the real world?”

“I’m an actor.”He fiddles with the napkin under his glass.“Well, trying to be.”

“You’re good, you know that?Your passion and commitment are obvious.I was…let’s just say I was _enthralled_.”

Timmy rolls his eyes.“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, though.”

“That was just…”He waves his arm.“I’m used to a script, _something_ to work from.I mean, I suck at improv, but the agency didn’t give me anything but a location and a time.I had to look it up on my phone to even see what the job was.”

“And you nailed it.”Nailed it? _Good God, I really did take his message to heart._

“I needed a paycheck.”

“There will be more, I promise.Big ones.”Armie bites his cheek.“This is the time to _get harder,_ right?Slip in that back door, make it feel good?” _Someone stop me_.“That’s the ‘hot, silky power,’ isn’t it, Timmy?” _When did my voice get husky?_

“I guess,” he replies glumly.

Nothing, not even a glimmer.Armie still can’t believe it.This kid is _sublime_.At this point, he doesn’t know if he should be embarrassed at how his own filthy mind works or throw his head back and laugh at Timmy’s quintessential purity. 

But somehow it’s not laughable.It’s _adorable_.

Armie wipes his face with his palm, wipes away its stifling crust of irony, along with the crippling urge to run his fingers along the nape of Timmy’s neck to free a curl of hair from his collar where it’s gotten trapped against his skin.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to stop being a dumbass and get a real job?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Most people do.”

Armie inhales and stops, hesitates because _damn it_ if this guy isn’t a shunt that drains out all Armie’s truth right at his feet.He leans closer, murmurs his secret to the bend of Timmy’s neck.“I wanted to be an actor once.”He smirks.“Once upon a time.”

Timmy looks up, an automatic hope in his eyes, an excitement, but he sags back again and curls his spine.“You’re smart to have let it go.”

“No, I’m not.”

He looks at Armie sidelong but doesn’t say anything for a while.Armie watches his wheels spin as he hunches over the bar, swirls the foam in his glass, drains the last of the fluid.Finally, he turns toward Armie, and his eyes have changed again, deepened their color, their fire.“I have an audition coming up for a film, and…I really want it.It will be a challenge but…it could be really good.”He slides to the edge of his seat so that his legs fall between Armie’s.“Do you think you could…will you help me?Run lines with me, give me something to play off?”Armie just stares at him. _How does he do that?_ How does he manage to look innocent and needy and determined and dominant, all in _one_ _single expression_??“It might…”Timmy bites his lip.“I mean, you never know…you might find something you thought you never would.”

Armie looks at his mouth, then his eyes, like he’s never heard those words before and cannot conceive of a reply. _Please just tell me because I forget how to ask_.

“Love.”

Armie feels his face heat immediately. _Shit, can this kid read me that well?_ Now, actual sweat forms at his collar. _Wait, what?What is happening here?What am I saying?_

Timmy’s face reddens, too.“Of _acting_ …a love of acting…love that you didn’t realize you had…or still had…or…”

There’s really only one answer Armie could ever give him.“Yes.”

Now it’s Tim’s turn to stare, teeth ajar, words unformed.

“I’d really like that, Timmy.”He smiles.“And who knows?Maybe I’ll even love it.”He looks Timmy square in the eye.“Maybe I always have.”

Timmy’s toothy grin envelops his face.“Great!In fact, I can show you the script now, if you want.I live pretty close by.”

Armie shrugs his agreement.As he is reaching for his wallet, he asks, “So what’s the title of this film?”

Timmy grimaces.“I can’t…something about names…or _calling_ names…It just arrived this morning, so I haven't really looked at it.All I know for sure is that the director is amazing.”

“Who’s that?”

“Luca Guadagnino.”

Armie’s eyebrows shoot up.“Luca?Really?Wow.Yeah, he _is_ amazing.”

Timmy clutches at his own lapels.He’s practically vibrating with excitement.“So far, I’ve only talked to him on the phone, and I know this job’s a long shot for me, but we really seemed to hit it off.Talked for like an hour just about cinema and our favorite films.We’re having lunch next week.”He reaches out and seizes Armie’s forearm with both hands.“Hey, you’ve got to come with me!I can introduce the two of you!”

Armie tosses some bills on the bar for their drinks.“That would be…Wait, are you sure?I don’t want to impose.Are you sure he… Wouldn’t that be weird?”

Timmy waves his hand.“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’ll be great.We can all talk about the characters.He’ll _love_ you!” _Why does he sound so positive?_ “Let’s go!”He takes several long strides toward the door.

Armie stares after him, then follows slowly.When he reaches him, Armie’s doesn’t know why he runs his fingers around Timmy’s collar to straighten it, flattens the knot of the charcoal tie, spreads his hands out on those narrow shoulders.Timmy is watching his face, but Armie can’t meet his eyes yet.“What’s your character’s name?” he asks, just to have something to say.

At the edge of his vision, Armie sees Timmy lick his lips.“Elio…wait, or _Oliver_?”A brisk shake of his curls.“Not sure now.Elio, Oliver—it’s one or the other.”

“Maybe it’s both.”

“Both?”

“Yeah.You know—two people, one soul…”Armie finally raises his eyes.“Stranger things have happened.”

He holds the door for Timmy, and they fall into step on the sidewalk.Timmy is quiet for a few blocks.When they stop for a light, he turns toward Armie.“Do you believe in that?”

“In what?”

“What you said.Soulmates.Do you think we all have them?”

He shrugs.“I didn’t think I did.”He watches the delicate lips twist, the crystalline gaze drop to his toes.“But I’m starting to.”

Timmy shoves his hands into his pockets.“You know, today started out like…like absolute _shit_ , and I had been questioning every decision I’ve ever made in my entire life.But now I…it’s…fuck, I feel like it’s all going to be okay…like everything’s going to just… _click_.”He smiles at me, suddenly shy again.“Sorry…I’m sure I sound like an idiot.My sister calls me a walking Hallmark card.”

“No, not at all.Look, I know a thing or two about questioning life choices, and all those directors who’ve said no to you or the jerks who’ve made you doubt yourself?They should be jealous of you, of your sense of absolute certainty.It’s like you go all-in when most people lack the courage to even try.” He smirks.“People like me, I mean…and…and I don’t want to be like that…now…anymore…”He ends awkwardly, looks at nothing over Timmy’s shoulder and exhales through pursed lips.

“I’m really glad I met you, Armie.”

_He’s_ glad?Armie steps closer to him. _Don’t kiss him, you lunatic_.He reaches out, cups Timmy’s elbow.“Same here, Tim.”He gives his arm a light squeeze.“This day has turned out better than I could ever have imagined.”

Armie watches Tim’s smile deepen, feels his own mouth match every movement.

The light changes, and they cross the intersection together.

“Hey, Timmy, the movie—do you know what kind of story it is?”

“It’s a love story.”

Now it’s Armie’s turn for silence.His hand brushes Timmy’s.“How does it end?”

Timmy hooks their pinkies.“It doesn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may have given them a completely different meeting, but the time that Armie enters the restaurant is quite significant in both universes.
> 
> And I could’t resist giving them their CMBYN introduction which blurs the lines from one to the other!
> 
> Cheers and all my thanks to Willowbrooke for her masterful beta skills!


End file.
